The following tale was obtained by Miss Roma Lister from the vicinity of
Rome, and from an old woman who is learned in sorcery and incantations.
It begins with the note that, on February 8, 1897, it was taken down as
given, literally word for word, and I translate it accordingly verbatim.
* * * * *
There were a husband, a wizard, and his wife (who was a witch), who had a
beautiful daughter, and a house with a fine garden which was full of
broccoli—oh, the finest broccoli in the world!
And opposite to this, or overlooking the garden, dwelt two women, and one
of these was _incinta_, or with child, and she said to the other woman:
“_Comare_, {140} how I would like to have two broccoli from the
magician’s garden. They’re so nice!”
“Yes, _comare_, but how to get them? It would be dangerous!”
“_La cosa si farà_—it can be done, at midnight when the sorcerer is
asleep, by stealing a little.”
And so they did, for at midnight both went with a sack, climbed over the
iron gate, and, having filled their bag, went away. {141a}
In the morning the magician Virgilio went to his garden and found that
many broccoli were gone. In a rage he ran to his wife, and said: “What’s
to be done?”
She replied: “This night we’ll set the cat on guard upon the gate.”
Which was done. That evening, _fra il lusco e il brusco_, {141b} the one
said:
“Ah, gossip, this night it can’t be done.”
“And why not, my dear?”
“Why! Because they’ve set a guard.”
“Guard! An old cat, you mean. Are you afraid of her?”
“Yes, because she mews when she sees something.”
“I say, I’ll tell you what to do. Take a bit of meat, and when she opens
her mouth to mew, pitch it in. That’ll keep her jaws quiet while we pick
the broccoli.”
And so it was done, and they got away with another bagful of broccoli.
In the morning the _mago_ Virgil found that he had been robbed again. He
complained again to his wife, who said:
“Well, to-night we will put the dog on.”
Said and done. But the dame at the window was on the watch. And seeing
all, she said:
“No broccoli to-night, gossip. This time they’ve put the dog to look
out.”
“Oh, bother the dog! When he opens _his_ jaws to bark, I’ll pitch in a
good bit of hard cheese. That’ll keep him quiet.”
Said and done again. The next morning the magician found a still greater
disappearance of broccoli from his garden.
“The thing is becoming serious,” he said. “To-night I will watch
myself.”
With that he went to his gate and remained there, looking closely at all
those who passed by. So he said to the first:
“What is your trade?”
“I’m a carpenter.”
“Pass on,” replied the magician. “You’re not the man I want.”
There came another.
“What’s your calling?”
“I’m a tailor.”
“Pass on—_non fate per me_” (you won’t do).
There came a baker. He was not wanted. But the next was a digger of
ditches and of graves—a _fossaruolo_—and the wizard cried:
“Bravo! You’re my man! Come with me; I want you to dig a pit in my
garden.”
So the poor man went, for he was as much frightened at the terrible face
and stature of the wizard as he was in hope of being paid. And being
directed, he dug a hole nearly as deep as the magician was tall.
“Now,” said the master, “get some light sticks and cover over the pit
while I stand in it, and then strew some twigs and leaves over it, with a
few leaves to hide the top of my head.”
It was done, and there he stood covered. The ditcher, or sexton, hurried
away, glad that he had dug this strange grave for another, and not for
himself.
Evening came, and the gossip looked out.
“Good! There is not even a dog on guard. Come, let us hurry! This time
we will take all that remains of the broccoli.”
Said and done. And when they had gathered the last plant, the gossip
cried:
“See what beautiful mushrooms! Let us pick them.”
She had seen the two ears of the sorcerer, which peeped out uncovered.
So she took hold of one and pulled.
“It will not come out!” she cried. “Do thou pull at one, while I draw at
this.”
Each pulled, when the magician raised his awful face and glared at them.
_E sorte fuori la terribile testa del mago_!
“Now you shall die for robbing me!” he exclaimed.
They were in a fine fright. At last Virgil said:
“I will spare thy life, if thou wilt give me all thou bearest—all within
thee.”
She consented, and they departed. After a time she became a mother, and
the magician came and demanded the child. And as she had promised it,
she consented to give it to him, but begged that it might be left to her
for a time.
“I will give it to thee for seven years,” he replied. Saying this, he
left her in peace for a long time. So the child, which was a boy, was
born, and as he grew older was sent every day to school.
One morning the magician met him, and said: “Tell thy mother to remember
her promise.” Then he gave the child some sweets, and left him. When at
home the boy said:
“Mamma, a gentleman met me to-day at the door of the school, and said to
me that I should tell you to remember your promise. Then he gave me some
comfits.”
The poor mother was in a great fright.
“Tell him, when you next meet him,” she answered, “that you forgot to
give his message to me.”
The next day the boy met the magician, and said to him that he had
forgotten all about it, and told his mother nothing.
“Very well, tell her this evening, and be sure to remember.”
The mother heard this, and bade him tell the sorcerer the same thing
again.
When he met the magician Virgil again and told the same story, the latter
smiled, and said:
“It seems that thou hast a bad memory. This time I will give thee
something by which to remember me. Give me thy hand.”
The boy gave his hand; the magician bit into one finger, and as the child
screamed, he said: “This time thou wilt remember.” The boy ran yelling
home.
“See what has happened to me, _brutta mammacia_—you naughty mamma—because
I did what you bade, and told the gentleman that I forgot.”
The poor woman, hearing herself called _brutta mammacia_, {143} was
overcome with grief and shame, and said, “_Vai bene_—I will tell him
myself.” So the next day she took the child and gave him to the
magician, who led him to his home.
But when his wife, the witch, beheld the boy, she cried:
“Kill that child at once, for I read it in his face that he will be the
ruin of our daughter Marietta!”
But the magician declared that nothing would induce him to harm the boy,
so the little fellow remained, and was treated by the master like a son.
In due time he became a tall and handsome young man, and he was called
Antonuccio. But the witch always said:
“We should kill and eat him, for he will be the ruin of our Marietta.”
At last the magician, weary of her complaints, said:
“_Bene_! I will set him a task, and if he cannot accomplish it, that
same night shall he be slain.”
Now, Antonuccio, as he slept in the next room, had overheard all this.
The next morning the magician took the youth to a stable which was very
large and horribly filthy, such as no one had ever seen, and said:
“Now, Antonuccio, you must clean this stable out and out—_bene e
bene_—repave it on the ground, and whitewash all above it; and moreover,
when I speak, an echo shall answer me.” {144}
The poor youth went to work, but soon found that he could do next to
nothing. So he sat down in despair.
At noon came Marietta, to bring him his lunch, and found him in tears.
“What’s the matter, Antonuccio?”
“If you knew that I am to be killed this evening—”
“What for?”
“Your father has said that unless I clean out the stable, and pave and
whitewash it to the echo—”
“Is that all? _Sta allegro_—be of good cheer—I’ll attend to that.”
Marietta went home, and stealing in on tip-toe while the sorcerer slept,
softly carried away his magic wand, and with a few words cleaned out the
stable to the echo, and Antonuccio was delighted.
In the evening the magician came, and finding the stable clean as a new
pin, was much pleased, and kissed him and took him home. The witch-wife
was furious at learning that the stable had been cleaned, and declared
that Marietta had done it, and ended by screaming for his life. At last
the wizard said:
“To-morrow I will set him another task, and should he fail in that, he
shall surely die.”
The next morning he led the youth into a dense forest of mighty trees,
and said:
“Thou seest this wood? In one day it must be all cut down and cleared
away to a clean field, in which must be growing all kinds of plants which
are to be found in the world.”
And Antonuccio began to hew with an axe, and worked well, but soon gave
up the task in despair.
At noon came Marietta with her basket.
“What, crying again! What is the trouble to-day?”
“Only to clear away all this forest, make a clean field, and plant it
with all the herbs in the world.”
“Oh, well, eat your lunch, and I will see about it. It is lucky that it
is not something difficult!”
She ran home, got a magic wand, and went to work. Down the trees came
crashing—away they flew! ’Twas a fine sight, upon my word! And then up
sprouted all kinds of herbs and flowers, till there was the finest garden
in the world.
In the evening came the magician, and was well pleased at finding how
well Antonuccio had done the work. But when his wife heard all, she
raged more than ever, declaring that it had all been done by Marietta,
who was destined to be ruined by the boy.
“Well, well!” exclaimed the wizard. “If you will give me no peace, I
must put an end to this trouble. I will give the boy nothing to do
to-morrow—he may remain idle—and in the evening I will chop off his head
with this axe.”
Antonuccio heard this speech as he had done the others, and this time was
in despair. In the morning Marietta found him weeping.
“What is the matter, Antonuccio?”
“I am to do no work to-day, but this evening I am to have my head chopped
off.”
“Is that all? Be of good cheer—_sta allegro_—I will see what can be
done.”
She put the pot on the fire to boil, and began to make the macaroni.
When she had cooked a great deal, they fed all the furniture, pots and
pans, chairs and tables, to please them, and induce them to be silent—all
except the hearth-brush, whom by oversight they forgot.
“And now,” said Marietta, “we must be off and away; it is time for us to
go!”
So away they ran. After a while the wizard and his wife returned and
knocked at the door. No answer. They rapped and called, but got no
reply. At last the hearth-brush cried:
“Who’s there?”
“Marietta, open the door—it is I.”
“I’m not Marietta. She has run away with Antonuccio. First they fed
everybody with ever so much macaroni, but gave me none.”
Then the witch cried to the wizard:
“Hurry—hasten—catch them if you can!”
The good man did as he was bid, and began to travel—travel far and fast.
All at once, while the lovers were on their way, Antonuccio turned his
head and saw afar their pursuer on a mountain-road, and cried:
“Marietta, I see your father coming.”
“Then, my dear, I will become a fair church and thou shalt be the fine
sexton (_sacristano_). And he will ask thee if thou hast seen a girl and
youth pass, and thou shalt reply that he must first repeat the
Paternoster and not the Ave Maria. And if he asks again, tell him to say
the Ave Maria and not the Paternoster. And then, out of patience, he
will depart.”
So it came to pass, and the wizard was deceived. When he had returned,
his wife asked him what he had seen.
“Nothing but a church and a sacristan.”
“Stupid that you are! The church was Marietta—fly, fly and catch them!”
So he set forth again, and again he was seen from afar by Antonuccio.
“Marietta, I see your father coming.”
“Good. Now I will become a beautiful garden, and thou the gardener. And
when my father comes and asks if thou hast seen a couple pass, reply that
thou weedest lettuces, not broccoli. And when he asks again, answer that
thou weedest broccoli, not lettuces.”
So it all came to pass, and the wizard, out of patience, returned home.
“Well, and what did you see?” inquired his wife.
“Only a garden and a gardener.”
“_Ahi—stupido_! Those were the two. Start! This time I will go with
you!”
After a while Antonuccio saw the two following, and gaining on them
rapidly.
“Marietta, here come your father and mother. Now we are in a nice mess.”
{147}
“Don’t be afraid. Now I will become a fountain fair and broad, like a
small lake, and thou a pretty pigeon, to whom they will call; but for
mercy’s sake don’t let yourself be taken, for then all will be over with
us.”
The wizard and his wife came to the fountain and saw the dove, and tried
to inveigle and catch it with grain. But it would not be caught, neither
could the witch quench her thirst with the water. So, finding that both
were beyond her power, she cried in a rage:
“When Antonuccio kisses his mother,
He’ll forget Marietta and every other.”
So, when the parents were gone, the pair set forth again, till they came
to a place not far from where the mother of Antonuccio lived.
“I will go and see my mother,” he said.
“Do not go, for she will kiss thee, and thou wilt forget me,” replied
Marietta.
“But I will take good care that she does not kiss me,” answered
Antonuccio. “Only wait a day.”
He went and saw his mother, and both were in great joy at meeting again,
but he implored her not to kiss him. And being weary, he went to sleep,
and his mother, unheeding his request, kissed him while he slept. And
when he awoke, Marietta was completely forgotten.
So the curse of the witch came to pass. And he lived with his mother,
and in time fell in love with another girl. Then they appointed a day
for their wedding.
Meanwhile, Marietta lived where she had been left, and made a fairy
friend who knew all that was going on far and near. One day she told
Marietta that Antonuccio was to be married.
Marietta begged her to go and steal some dough (from the house of the
bride). The friend did so, and Marietta made of the dough two cakes in
the form of puppets, or children, and one she called Antonuccio and the
other Marietta.
Then, on the day of the feast, the first day of the wedding, she begged
her friend to go and put the two puppets on the bridal table.
She did so, and when all were assembled, the puppet Marietta began to
speak:
“Dost thou remember, Antonuccio,
How, when my father brought thee to his house,
My mother wished to take away thy life?
And how he bade thee sweep the stable clean?”
And the other replied:
“Passing away, passing away,
Well do I remember the day.” {148}
Then Marietta sang:
“Dost thou remember, Antonuccio,
How ’twas I aided thee to clear the field?”
He replied:
“Passing away, passing away,
Well do I remember the day.”
She sang again:
“Dost thou remember how thou hadst no work
Upon the day when they would murder thee,
And how we fled together to escape?”
He replied:
“Passing away, passing away,
Well do I remember the day.”
Meanwhile the true Antonuccio, who was present, began to remember what
had taken place. Then the puppet Marietta sang again:
“Dost thou remember how I was the church,
And thou of it becam’st the sacristan?”
He answered:
“Passing away, passing away,
Well do I remember the day.”
“Dost thou remember how I was a garden,
And how thou didst become its gardener?”
“Passing away, passing away,
Well do I now remember the day.”
“Dost thou remember how I was a fountain,
And thou a pigeon flying over it?”
“Passing away, passing away,
Well do I now remember the day.”
“Dost thou remember, Antonuccio,
How ’twas my mother laid a curse on me,
And how she said before she went away—
When Antonuccio kisses his mother
He’ll forget Marietta and every other?’”
“Passing away, passing away,
Well do I now remember the day.”
Then Antonuccio himself remembered it all, and rising from the table, ran
from the house to where Marietta dwelt—and married her.
* * * * *
This story, adds Miss Lister, is somewhat abbreviated, since in the
original the puppet Marietta, for the edification of all assembled,
repeats the whole story.
It will be at once observed that there is in all this no special
reference to Virgil as a character, as he appears in other legends, the
reason being that the old woman who narrated it simply understood by the
word Virgilio _any_ magician of any kind. So in another tale a youth
exclaims, “Art thou what is called _a_ Virgil?” This is curious as
indicating that the word has become generic in Italian folk-lore. But
Virgil is even here, as elsewhere on the whole, a man of kind heart. He
has had his garden robbed and his daughter stolen, but he displays at all
times a kindly feeling to Antonuccio. It is his wife, the witch, who
shows all the spite.
Nor is this, like the rest, a witch-story which belongs entirely to
esoteric, unholy, or secret lore, specially embodying instruction and an
incantation. It is a mere nursery legend, the commonest of Italian
fairy-tales, to be found in all collections in whole or in part. It is
spread all over Europe, and has found its way through Canadian-French to
the Red Indians of North America—apropos of which I would remind a
certain very clever reviewer and learned folk-lorist that because many
French tales are found among the Algonkin tribes, it does not follow, as
he really intimates, that the said Redskins have no other traditions.
But even in this version there are classic traces. The cleaning out of
the Augean stables by Hercules is one, and the spell of oblivion another.
I do not know what the origin may be of the head of the sorcerer rising
from the surface of the earth with ears like mushrooms, implying that
they were very large; but I find in an edition of the “Meditations of
Saint Augustin,” Venice, A.D. 1588, illustrated with rude, quaint
pictures, one in which the holy father is kneeling before a crucifix,
while there rises from the ground before him a great and terrible head
with one very long ear. By it lies the usual skull, one-fifth its size.
Were two women substituted for the saint, it would be a perfect
illustration of the strange scene described in the story. It is, to say
the least, a singular coincidence.
This story is therefore of some value as indicating that the general term
of sorcerer, magician or wizard, is used as a synonym for Virgil, or
_vice versâ_. As Lucan writes in his “Pharsalia”: “Nec sua Virgilio
permisit nomina soli.” {150}
It is worth noting that there is in the Museum of Florence an Etruscan
mirror on which Mercury and Minerva are represented as looking at a human
head apparently coming from the ground. It may be that of Orpheus lying
upon it; in any case, it is strangely suggestive of these tales. I am
indebted for a tracing of this mirror to the Rev. J. Wood Brown, author
of the “Life of Michael Scott, the Magician and Philosopher,” wherein the
latter hath a dual affinity to Virgil, and it is very remarkable, as I
have elsewhere noted, that the splitting a hill into three is near Rome
ascribed to the Roman poet.
A curious book could be written on heads, decapitated, which have spoken.
There is, I believe, a legend to the effect that the caput of John the
Baptist thus conversed, and it may be that the New Testament only gives a
fragment of the original history. The belief that Herodias was a
sorceress, and a counterpart of Diana as queen of the witches, was
generally established so early as the second century, but is far older,
the original Herodias having been a form of Lilith. {151}
It is specially to be noted in connection with this tale that one of the
older legends given in “Virgilius the Sorcerer of Rome” expressly
declares that
“Virgilius made an iron head which could not only speak, but also
foretell the future; and, as some say, it was by misinterpreting the
oracle that Virgilius met his death in this wise. Being about to
undertake a journey, he asked the head if it would come to a good
end. The reply was: ‘Yes, if he took care of _his head_.’ Taking
this to mean the oracle itself, Virgilius took every measure to
secure it, and with light heart went his way, but while journeying,
exposed to sunshine, he was seized with a fever in the head, of which
he died.”
This is again like the death of Michael Scott.